


In The Wee Small Hours

by MyStupidMouth_07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyStupidMouth_07/pseuds/MyStupidMouth_07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels nothing, just the numbness that surrounds his heart growing denser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Wee Small Hours

The flat is quiet when he shudders awake, gasping at the remnants of a nightmare. But then quiet is all it has been since _Goodbye John_ , since the manic energy that surrounded him vanished in two steps and a free-fall. And he hates it, oh how John hates it, the quiet that only emphasizes the presence of _his_ absence, that tangible feeling of loss so strong that he chokes on it sometimes.  
  
He lays there in the dark, willing his heartbeat to slow down, taking shaky breaths and trying to get rid of the image of blood-splattered curls and unseeing grey eyes that's seared onto his brain. In his dreams he's always reaching out, as if his outstretched arms will stop the most brilliant man he's ever known from cracking his skull open on the cold, hard, unforgiving pavement.  
  
Taking a deep breath he gets out of bed, knowing that sleep will not be coming back for him. Just like it has been for the past seven hundred and forty one days. He tries not to think about what it means that he's still counting days. He should feel pathetic, he thinks, clinging onto the past this way, but he feels nothing, just the numbness that surrounds his heart growing denser.  
  
He walks downstairs, flicks the kettle on and takes down the solitary mug from the cupboard. He'd broken all the others on day two hundred and two, _frustrated and furious_ that he kept making two cups of tea  _every single time_.  
This way is better he thinks, no accidental extra cups of tea that make his breath hitch and bile rise to his throat. He leans his head against cupboard door, waits for the water to boil, surrounded by the ghost of what was once the most important thing in his life.  
  
He is tired, so tired of this. Struggling through the day, pretending everything is fine and then waking up in the wee small hours to the never-ending loop of his best friend plunging to his death. But worst of all is the unrelenting guilt, the knowledge that he could have prevented this, if only he had been a little faster, if only he had been a little kinder, if only he had held his tongue (the words  _'you... you machine_ ' ring in his ears taunting him with their inaccuracy) if only he had pleaded a bit harder, if only he had observed instead of just seeing, if only he had found the right words to say, _if only, if only, if only..._

At first he had tried, when the acute pain of loss had finally dulled to an steady ache beneath his ribs. He had tried to pull his life together, gone back to work at the surgery, even ventured on a pitiful date or two. But all he had been doing was going through the motions and his world was bleak; bleaker than it had been when he had returned from Afghanistan, broken and scarred, holding onto sanity by the tiniest thread.  
This, this is worse, this is _intolerable,_ because then he hadn't known what it was like to be caught up in the whirlwind of a madman in a swirling coat, hadn't known what it felt like to have that sharp gaze focused like a laser beam on him. He hadn't known what it was like to wake up from a nightmare to the quiet music of a violin being played outside his door; hadn't known the friendship of a man who always insisted he had no friends, but made sure that John knew he was the exception. He had been broken before, but now he is just empty, drained of everything but this all encompassing grief.

  
"I can't do this" he whispers brokenly, slumping down onto the kitchen floor.  
"I can't do this anymore, _Sh_ -" the name strangles itself in his throat, refusing to be spoken out loud, not worthy to pass the lips of a man who failed to save his friend. He buries his face in his hands and sits there, not crying, no because his grief is beyond tears, beyond rage and anger. His grief is just that, grief, nothing but never-ending, all-consuming _grief_. His grief is everything.  
  
And he has had enough.  
  
He has had enough of seeing _h_ _im_ in every swish of a dark coat, has had enough of being unable to step into a cab without being reminded of that first cab ride, has had enough of wanting to smash that _stupid_ skull that sits on the mantelpiece grinning at him (but never actually following-through because it was once _h_ _is_ only friend), has had enough of waking up screaming and reaching out to a phantom, has had _enough_ of the guilt and pain and crippling grief.

It's not a decision he's taken hastily. If he's honest with himself, he has thought about it for seven hundred and forty two days, but he has always told himself to hold on, things will get better, things will get easier, this ache under your sternum will eventually go away. But it's _not_ and it _hasn't_ and he is _so fucking tired_ of holding on.  
  
He picks himself off of the floor, hands steady, because now he knows what he's going to do, he finally has a definite goal. He goes to his room and gets dressed; jeans, shirt, jumper all going on in quick succession.  
He leaves his gun locked in his side table, he won't need it, not where he's going. He leaves the flat without any lingering glances, everything in it is just an object, the presence that made it home snuffed out long ago.  
  
He walks, briskly despite the twinge in his leg. London is asleep, or as asleep as London can be. He thinks of giggling at crime-scenes, mad midnight chases, jumping across rooftops, ducking through alleys and breathless laughter at the end of it and for once the thought does not make his heart stutter in his chest.  
He reaches his destination, the first time he's set foot in the place for seven hundred and forty two days, and there's no hesitation in his stride as he uses the staff entrance to get to the top of the building.  
  
He stands there on the edge of the roof, breathing in the air, feeling relief for the first time since _Goodbye John_ , for the first time since blood splattered on the pavement and turned his world inside-out. He knows now how this ends, how this was always meant to end, in two steps and a free-fall.

He opens his mouth, wills the words to come out strong, even though he knows there's no one to hear them.  
  
" _Goodbye Sherlock"_  
  
And then he falls.  
  
*  
  
Seven hundred and forty two days after his brother jumped off the roof of St. Barts, in the wee small hours in Serbia, in a damp, dingy, dungeon Mycroft Holmes whispers "The holiday is over Brother dear. Back to Baker Street, _Sherlock Holmes_."

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic, ever. Reviews are much appreciated.


End file.
